


Steady Now (revised)

by the_math



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Hannibal, Forced Orgasm, Hanging, Hannibal!whump, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Strangulation, mentions of recalled child abuse, taken liberties regarding Hannibal's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_math/pseuds/the_math
Summary: This fic is a fill for a prompt from the hannibalkink kinkmeme.The prompt:"I want Hannibal tied up, and overpowered and helpless and humiliated! Hannibal thinks he can handle the torture, but when his captor turns to sexual torture Hannibal realizes he's human after all."The pool scene in Mukozuke seemed a good place for it, so that's where it takes place.





	Steady Now (revised)

**Author's Note:**

> So I've apparently had this revision for ages. Edited it and am slapping it on here. It's kind of the same, but then not. Anyway, I am leaving the original up because I am not a fan of deleted works since they can cause pain, and I'd rather cause that with **posted things** \- mwahahaha. (Plus, I truly love the love it got and remain shocked by it. o.o <3!)
> 
> My initial notes still stand: Hannibru can be described as OOC in this. I see it that way. Still, it is the OP (and myself) that I was aiming to please.

  
  
_"Did you kill that judge?"_  
  
  
  
The day was not one that would end filed away in the memory bank as one of Hannibal's better ones. Not mitigating the matter in the least was this nurse, telling _him_ – ex-surgeon and present day psychiatrist, of all people – how eye dilation works. Added insult to the precarious position where he's doing his best not to choke on a noose about his neck nor stumble off of the unsteady bucket under his feet. Both biceps and forearms tightly taped to what searching fingers found to be a steel bar pressed across the backs of his shoulders.  
  
  
Crucified for his sins.  
  
  
One might call it sacrilege. Hannibal merely found the whole thing both efficient and incredibly rude. He'd done nothing to offend this eager swine. Will's little wild card's evening plans had best end in Hannibal's death lest Hannibal take a much deserved revenge – one that would surely end in this admirer's painful, oh so very painful, demise.  
  
  
Leaning in so Mr. Nurse wouldn’t miss a thing, the dilation went as expected and confirmed Hannibal's identity. The nurse's seemingly permanent thin smirk spread wide in excited interest and…pride. Perhaps a hint of awe and a definite air of _I knew it_. A stark difference from the typical reaction of those who discovered what lay beneath Dr. Lecter's humane exterior. The nurse was probably thanking his lucky stars for his current upper hand. Quite the blow to Hannibal's own pride to not have taken precaution against this, to have ignored the young man when he arrived. An embarrassing novice error, to say the least. He let himself feel every well hidden bit of it while the nurse basked in his achievement.  
  
  
It appeared Will had been lying. A lot. And Hannibal hadn't let himself see it. Of course, he'd been curious, but never sure; Will's mind so refreshing and wonderful he allowed himself to believe things were only as they seemed. As he wanted. Yet he'd longed equally for this uninhibited, vengeful Will of expressions and inflections honed to a degree that they became perfect weapons, a huge step in the direction of improvement from impersonal guns. Hannibal thought himself a master of all bodily tells and betrayals, but it wasn't displeasure coursing through him at Will's first real move against him. It was pride. He was proud of the worthy force Will became with his health restored. Surely a celebration was in order. Eventually.  
  
  
He _could_ share his glee with this extra in his and Will's game, but Hannibal wasn't keen on the idea of sharing Will with anyone, let alone his current company – the little fool who had evidently smirked his way out of Hannibal's periphery.  
  
  
A moment later, said fool quite literally kicked the bucket _for_ Hannibal. The rope snapped taut with his weight, and his legs struggled uselessly in all the resistance he could afford, and he closed his eyes. Ability to breathe gone, consciousness followed shortly after.  
  
  
The rope undone, Lecter's body hit the floor hard as Matthew Brown looked on dispassionately. The favor he would do for his fellow hawk grew wings in his mind. Not in his wildest dreams could Matthew have ever imagined he'd meet or end such a prolific killer. Subduing and killing him were too good to be icing on proverbial cake; no, they were beyond dreams come true. The Chesapeake Ripper – laid before him, supine and gleaming. _Alive?_ It hardly mattered.  
  
  
Will Graham did. The asocial man really was something else. Matthew had known. This was the start to a beautiful thing.  
  
  
A sudden, sharply stuttered breath in the silence answered Brown's previously dismissed question. _Alive!_ The notorious cannibal with a face no one knew and never-ending blazing pits for eyes yet lived. This devil in his own right. Will's reason for being imprisoned and nearly executed. The latter apparently thwarted by both Matthew and Lecter, as it were. Which was strangely helpful of the serial killer, but of no consequence. The wrongs Lecter had dealt Will obviously were. Wasn’t theirs quite the odd relationship? Serial killer cannibal sparing the life of a man who wanted him dead.  
  
  
Interesting for sure, but no matter.  
  
  
Tonight Matthew meant to play the role of executioner on Will Graham's behalf. To be his personal agent. _His friend_, he thought, watching The Ripper's breaths take on a peaceful, rhythmic sign of a job not done. He eyed the rope, mentally preparing for another go, but then gave Lecter's limp form a lingering once over as an idea came to him. Opportunity knocking hard. Chance to take all he could from the devil himself.  
  
  
Perhaps there was time for a spell of extracurricular fun. Matthew so rarely had opportunity for such fun, and what a delight it would be to torment the killer. It would be, quite literally, his pleasure. Will might even find the humor in it. _He 'fucked' you, but I **fucked** him - hah!_  
  
  
Plenty of time if he prepared now, so that's what he did.  
  
  
Stripping the bathing suit from Lecter's unconscious body presented Matthew with an agreeable view of his moderately impressive semi-erect, uncut cock. Whoever said asphyxiation couldn't be fun clearly had no taste for excitement. 'Normal' folk simply didn't have it in them to enjoy themselves as much as the ones they privately envied and deemed mentally disturbed. And enjoy himself Matthew would. Unzipping his supply bag, he pulled out the roll of duct tape and recalled a broom sharing the janitor's closet with the already decommissioned mop.  
  
  
Moments later saw him snapping off the business end of the broom before he got to work.  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal coughed harshly into the air as intermittent slaps to his face crudely roused him. Bleary eyes glanced about, confused and perhaps a bit anxious to make sense of what exactly was going on. The memory of being hanged and his final acceptance of what would surely be his death bounced around in his head as his more or less controlled coughing fit quieted. Mildly trembling fingers searched calmly, curiously touching the cold floor, and his arms strained once, twice before he calmed his shaking and recalled why he could not move them.

On his back, and bound as he’d been prior to the hanging, he softly grimaced at the ceiling and swallowed down the final urges to cough the gritty feeling from his throat.

“Come on.” Another stinging slap. “That’s it, Doc. Not dead yet. Wakey wakey.” _My eggs and bakey want to play._

Hannibal winced some at the ache behind each breath he took, and focused on the looming face as his vision cleared. Leant over, Will’s rude “friend” stared back intently, impatience swallowing up the rest of his expression.

“Change of heart?” Hannibal rasped unevenly – a mildly bothersome quality – as he glanced down at himself and noted his nude state. That couldn’t be good, he mused, and it only got worse when looking farther down revealed the bar taped between the spread of knees covered by said tape, his jaw tightening of its own accord. Highly bothersome. Surreptitious clenching of his legs proved he could do nothing about it, so he let it go, catching himself starting to actually grow concerned. He didn't _want_ to struggle mindlessly, but some unhelpful part of himself that required smothering urged him to do just that.

The orderly huffed a laugh as though Hannibal had made some absurd claim.

“Something like that, sure,” he replied. “Sore throat? Looked like you were coming down with something earlier. Couldn’t help to hope you weren't catching your death or anything.”

It wasn’t often someone made jokes at Hannibal’s expense, if being put in such a degrading situation wasn't enough for new and unwelcome experiences. Already stripped and tethered like an animal, he decided to spare himself from further indignity and avoided the bait. He kept his mouth shut and gaze firm on sly blue eyes and a smirk practically daring for a response. Certainly daring Hannibal to ask after the situation, but he didn't need to ask.

What he did was give himself a much needed moment to visualize biting that whole smirk clean off Mr. Nurse’s face. He saw the blood that would (_should_) flow beautifully down from where their bodies joined, coloring the air and his senses, and, yes, he could even hear the resulting screams. Spacious as the washroom was, every note would echo quite splendidly. Music to his ears. Hannibal felt satisfied and at peace.

“That’s enough of that.” And if the words weren’t enough to pull Hannibal from his imagination, the newly familiar feel of unforgiving rope tightening around his neck certainly did the trick. Rather literally.

Matthew pulled the rope, forcing the unprepared and newly choking doctor awkwardly onto parted knees before heaving him the rest of the way onto his feet. When there was just enough give so that Lecter could just manage his breaths while standing flat on his spread feet, Matthew re-secured it.

Exposed. In a word, that was how he felt. Hannibal forcibly kept himself from considering just how many of his secrets this boy would effortlessly uncover. Infuriating to be at the mercy of someone he honestly knew nothing of outside of where he worked. The only common factor between them that mattered was Will, and he was the one who set this boy’s sights on him. To kill him. Hannibal better than doubted that _that_ would be achieved anytime soon.

It didn't take a genius to deduce what violation he would incur in the very near future. As far as he knew, the only other soul aware of this _chance_ encounter was locked up and adorning a giant Hannibal-shaped chip on his shoulder. Hannibal’s perpetually frowning would-be friend – had intended plans not very recently gone so awry. It would sadden him if not for the ogling eyes of this rotten boy and what he was apparently going to get to do to him turning his stomach so completely. With no one but Will privy, this was going to happen. What a miserable realization.

“You do take care of yourself, Doc,” the boy drawled. "Shouldn't come as a surprise, I guess."

"Did Will ask you to do this as well?" If this insolent swine was open to conversation, Hannibal wouldn't waste it.

"He asked me to kill y-"

"We both know...that is not what you…are planning to do now," he interrupted. Uncharacteristic, yes, but this pig was especially rude, and the rope irksome with how it complicated speech.

"Mm." The nurse smiled with open satisfaction. "Pretty glad you _didn't_ catch death on the first try."

Their game had grown upsetting fast. "He won't approve." Hoping for an opening he could work with. Will's approval was not easily earned. Being a killer made it almost impossible – Hannibal would know. So unless this boy planned to lie...

"He's gotten past worse." Hannibal only blinked at him before responding.

"Your actions here...could very well backfire on Will," he explained. "The FBI will…know he sent you."

Chin raised in defiance, "Will asked for my help.” Speaking concisely. “Killing you is me helping him."

"And yet." They stared at one another in a heated impasse. "Is this you...looking out for _his_…best interests?" The nurse seemed to consider that.

"_Your_ watchful eye nearly got him executed," he fired back.

"You know…better than that.” Wheezing in air. “I would never...do anything to hurt Will."

Lofting his brows, "He said you let his brain catch fire."

"Controlled,” he rasped. ”Besides...you seem qu-" he took a careful breath, anger masked with casual consideration, "quite fond…of the results."

The nurse nearly snorted. "He did mention your arrogance." Hannibal was positive Will left out his own self-righteousness, but just having heard that Will spoke of him at all warmed him, the context be damned.

"What else…did he say?" He couldn't help it.

"Narcissistic," the orderly supplied, crossing his pale arms.

"The best of us...usually are...to some degree." The young man ducked his head and looked back under raised brows, but he didn't disagree.

"You're wasting time."

"Not at all. We...can work together." That got him a huff of laughter and a lofted brow.

"You want me to betray him too?"

"I...want us to help-"

"_Manipulative_." He didn't have to explain it. "You leaving here with your life isn't an option."

Before the orderly could take a step, Hannibal tried another avenue.

“Is there…something you hope to gain from all this?” he forced himself to ask, keeping curious eyes on the nurse’s clear blues. “Because Will Graham...killing at your side...is hardly a possibility,” he informed, voice like grit in his throat, and followed up with a strained, scoffed huff. “Even after…you prove loyal...I assure you...you’re not his type..” his Adam’s apple worked to swallow down what threatened to be another coughing fit before he finished. “Not yet.”

Hannibal was being nothing if not sincere, and the orderly appeared to consider both him and his words before turning his head and raising a speculative brow in a side eye stare.

“And you’re gonna change that, right?" Unimpressed and tempered anger. "On top of that, I get a two-for-one deal? Practically an infomercial.” He sniffed in derision. “Not buying it.”

Hannibal's gaze fell to the floor and closed off, weary. Drops of sweat dripped from his nose and the damp hair that hung over his forehead. After swimming, being hanged and holding a conversation while struggling to both breathe and stand, he was low on energy. He was tired and loathe to let it show. With less than two full breaths in the last several minutes, his spinning head could use the oxygen.

"You've...done this before," Hannibal muttered.

"_Nope_." Unchanged from that bored anger. "First time for everything."

"Do this…and he'll see…you dead," Hannibal's whispered rasp, not bothering to hide his disdain any longer. "The only…_proper_ outcome...for what you’ll have…become."

"Give it a rest. You force yourself on the unwilling all the time," Matthew muttered. "And you violated Will's headspace, his trust in you."

"Hardly the same-"

"Some might say what you did was worse," he argued. "What do you say we let Will decide?" Though he wasn't asking.

"Will benefit-"

"_Not_ arguing perspectives with a medical practitioner," cutting him off yet again with a wave of a hand as he approached. "You’ll _benefit_ from this too, _doctor_. I do hope you enjoy the sound of your own voice just as much during it," adding the crude jab as an afterthought, pleased with how Lecter was, at the very last second of visibility, either unwilling or unable to hold his gaze in immediate response to it.

Matthew’s signature smirk grew smug at seeing that dark scrutiny flicker and then dart away at the jibe as he took the few steps necessary to be stood behind the defenseless form, knowing he’d struck a nerve. _What luck!_ With very sure hands he quickly admired the Ripper's supple but firm ass. To his credit, the man only tensed for a split second, but Brown knew he could force The Ripper to be more receptive.

Snaking an arm around to Hannibal's front, he confidently grasped the man's limp cock in his and heard the near choke to swallow down a small noise. _That's right_, he thought, _better not move if you like breathing._ Clearly, Lecter got the same idea because he shifted awkwardly to stand as tall as he could and did his best to stay that way. _Smart fellow._ How exciting to have found an exploitable weakness in such a man. In the renowned psychiatrist who tortured, maimed, killed and ate his fellow man on the regular.

In Matthew’s experience, even the strongest of walls crumbled and fell. Time, effort – one or the other saw to that.

Beaming devilishly with sharp teeth and pride, Matthew took an academic stab at effort and began vigorously jerking the doctor off until he felt the heating flesh begin to harden, a slow but sure thing. Lecter’s quivers and involuntarily jerking hips intermittent occurrences of not-quite unsuppressed emotion and physiology. _Rage? Shame?_ Brown wondered which emotion. Listening intently, he could hear small gasps of breath as the man stubbornly fought to reign in what his body seemed wont to let out. “Nobody ever tell you?” he chortled. “Better out than in.” _Time_ and _effort_, he thought.

Hannibal did not imagine he would be glad for much tonight, but when he felt a hand wrap around his penis, he was indeed grateful for the vision of the empty shower room when his closed eyes sprang open. Unable to hide his face, had anyone stood before him, there was no saying what surely humiliating expression they would have met – indignant, horrified, terrified? Unbearable, that. The equally shameful sound he didn’t quite keep down was distressing enough.

The purpose of the spreader repeatedly came into play. No part of him – logic or instinct – could accept failure there, it seemed. His legs made to close in a sad attempt to keep him from further violation and, in turn, utter devastation. The _forced_ belief that this would be all the pig took from him wasn’t helping and made him struggle more.

Purposed action, though, was not a privilege available to him. It took conscious effort to maintain his posture with the forceful hand working him over painfully and without a hitch. His own breaths were anything but without catches. The dirt path he was being tugged down lead to a mine field of buried moments suffered. With ugliest triggers. Ancient now, untouched. Hannibal didn’t welcome emotional explosions; how he would react to this an unknown and incredibly off-putting.

A growing, long forgotten, child’s fear crept upon him. Kept from him the entire feeling of shame at what physical and audible responses he couldn't banish. He felt himself getting harder as the force of friction continued. Body shivering as disgusting waves of warm pleasure washed over him, his closed off expression flushed with the indignity of it all.

The hand suddenly stopped, resting loosely around the base of his penis, and Hannibal nearly forgot himself and let his posture sag. Its counterpart came around the other side of him and wrapped itself about the tip of his prick, and he shook. His foreskin pulled back, the stroking continued with renewed ferocity, close attention paid to where it would affect him most.

Hannibal choked on a breathy moan, eyes squeezed shut, clenched teeth bared to the room for a beat as his throat strained to ground down humiliating sounds that demanded release. Within a minute – maybe two – control of his body was impossible to maintain. He was so hard there was no quelling the quaking of his thighs, the desperate jerking of hips.

At once, the hated friction vanished. Rapid gulps of air came and left him in gasp after fiercely wheezing broken gasp.

Matthew listened to Lecter’s version of a relieved moan as he came around to see the results of his ministrations, looking the flushed man up and down with an approving half smile playing on his lips. Lecter's cock looked agonizingly hard, the tip glistening in arousal. A stiff slap to the head produced a sound he would forever cherish.

The small cry would replay in his mind until the end of time, at times the last sound he imagined before drifting off into welcome dreams of tonight's events.

He hummed in approval and put on a self-satisfying look of sympathy at the flushed and distressed one not looking back. Brown's expression the doctor would never see; it was clear the stubborn man still hadn't given up trying to close as much of himself off from the whole experience as he could. _Conversation might help there_, Brown thought, a cruel gleam in his eyes.

"Looks like we both enjoyed that," Matthew commented, putting a hand to the sweaty, hair-covered and heaving chest before him. "Eh, Doc? What do you say we 'kick it up a notch'?"

When he only got more of the same – closed eyes faintly lined with apprehension, visibly measured breathing – Matthew rolled his eyes, bored.

"Not an Emeril kinda guy, are ya?"

Nothing.

"Nothing, Doc? You had so much to say before. I need to be able to hold a conversation with a fella if we're gonna be friends."

At that, The Ripper did open his eyes, but not to embrace the offer of conversation. Certainly not friendship. The hate was pure, the rage primal. Their battle would, without question, be to the death.

So he wouldn't play along. _Fine_, Matthew thought, with a light shrug of a shoulder.

"It's not that you strike me as a guy who bites at cheap lures, it's just that...in your predicament... Well, maybe prolonging the inevitable doesn’t appeal to you," Brown falsely ventured, knowing it wasn’t the case. “Maybe you think I’ll get bored, make this short and quick.” Looking down at the softening cock, he smirked and slowly shook his head with a final, happily drawled promise. "I won’t."

Hannibal stared down at the wet floor and let his mind out, no desire to be party to what was transpiring in a miserable reality. Jack sat across from him at his dinner table, but wasn't that wrong? The scene amended. Will dined with him. Hannibal would gain for good Will his release from Chilton's playhouse and either invite him over or merely wait for him to show up on his own. They would discuss everything necessary to resuscitate and fortify their friendship over bowls of Beuschel, courtesy of their now mutual acquaintance. In the scenario, Will frowned at the perfect bowl of pale stew and raised a brow in something like astonishment. Will opened his mouth to speak, but the high sound that came out wasn’t Will. Alarm widened those frowning eyes, and he mouthed something Hannibal couldn’t make out before a louder cry ended everything.

In a blink Hannibal’s mind surfaced from its comfortable hiding place and this time, he felt more than heard himself cry out; a stabbing, burning pain in his rectum the cause. The host of that cause already blathering on, almost certainly about nothing. What was almost certainly fingers invading him twisted, and he grunted harshly, the sound breaking regretfully at the end.

"Ah, you _can_ feel it," Matthew chuckled. “Wasn’t sure. Two fingers really don’t look like much.” Two fingers he’d haphazardly shoved in, and was quickly and rather forcefully spreading the doctor open with. Brown heard the man grit out pained sounds as he tore him, blood easing the way some.

"Forgive my haste. The blood serves a purpose. You know how it is." Matthew pushed deeper, fingers digging in and stretching, tearing more in their wake as they twisted and the Ripper flinched away and tensed again and again. “I can feel your heart hammering away.” An absolutely delightful surprise! A short lived whine sounded in quite the pitch when his knuckles glanced against Lecter’s prostate. "_Oh_," he drawled, "maybe you don't know. For some reason I was so sure you’d done this before. I’ll break you in quick, no worries,” he said with a smile and slap to the doctor’s visibly tense rear. “Word of advice, ol’ boy: loosen up.”

At once the fingers were gone, and before Hannibal could actually “loosen up” in relief, hands slipped to rest on either side of his hips, and a cruel reintroduction to incredible anxiety did the rest.

There was no preparing, no bracing or assuring words – no words at all for spare seconds that felt like years – to tell himself as he felt the nurse lining up.

Age, intelligence, strength – all powerless against the fear. Fear that always made things worse. Knowing he was about to be raped was already monumentally _bad_. He truly, desperately didn’t want that, and he wreaked havoc on his own mind for a solution to this horrible problem. He may as well have opened his mouth and asked for mercy, for this was merely the first of many solutions he would not find.

He had, just behind the fear, a remnant of indignity urging him to fight, to struggle and yell, to _do something_. But reminders old as they were cold cut in. It wouldn’t help. Could only get him hurt worse.

Hannibal had a far lengthier history of being on the receiving end of spirited pleading, but he knew both sides well. Serious trauma smothered carefree joy like magma, made it impossible to reacquire and reduced its worth to the sufferer anyway, right along with nearly everything else. For Hannibal, cruelty and caution would forever override kindness and trust. Caution he’d been without as of late, Carefree getting him tossed back onto the side of Prey.

Fleeting scrambled thoughts of how he was going to handle being hurt like this were blown astray, loose pages in the face of a windstorm, when the nurse tore in and a high sound of distress flew out.

All he knew was the pain, and it immediately increased when he did the wrong thing – tensing hard, body arching forward in pointless retreat. Miserable anguish shaped his face, his lungs cutting off as he wrestled to do the right thing. Another push ruined that, intruding and ripping shockingly deeper into him, cruelly showing him that there was no right thing. This was _meant_ to hurt.

Shocked into a cold sweat, nausea threatened as the next thrust left contrasting, warm trails running down the insides of his trembling thighs. His teeth bared and clenched in a grimace under the rough pace the orderly set, Hannibal distantly realized he could hear more than their labored breaths. Panting aside, he was whimpering, actually _whimpering_ – pained and small, short, pitifully growled things. Outside of noticing, there was nothing else to be done with that.

"I'll do you a solid, Doc." Heated breath in his ear.

Hannibal felt the noose loosen just so, making the sporadic panting he'd been struggling with easier, but it only lasted a moment. A hand left his hip and an arm came round his throat, tightening in warning, and the force of pounding reached a new high. The friction reached that dreaded bundle of nerves, and Hannibal's reality shifted, blurring.

_‘You like this, don’t you?’_ He didn’t. He never once did, cutting off a startled cry and swallowing down the sudden urge to be sick, his body quick to respond how it had to the nasty combination of unwanted sensations as each man took his turn. _‘Dirty little bugger likes it!’_

_No!_ They _forced_ him. Relentlessly; every time, until nothing remained in a stomach already horribly underfed. Whether or not he begged them to stop raping him, he always plead for food. Getting food had been a real possibility. But the pain was so much this time, more than he could remember it ever being, and the smell of blood was overpowering. He knew they wouldn't stop, but it hurt, and he had to get away!

Caged in traumatic memories, Hannibal's endeavor to endure being raped in as composed a nature as his body and mind allowed had gone out the window.

Believing himself back in Lecter castle, suffering under the collective assaults of Grutas and friends, he struggled, unseeing eyes wild with fear squeezing shut as he tried to twist free of the grip and strange restraints on him. They'd never choked him. Had he done something so terribly wrong that they've taken to treating him so much worse? He couldn't recall. Didn't even know where he was in his own home, but he was more terrified than usual.

"Aš atsiprašau! Prašau!" his throat hurt, he couldn't stop struggling, but he had to try. "Aš atsiprašau!"

The choking his movements brought on did nothing to calm him. Even when the thrusting stopped, he still fought in terror and apologized, but then the noose around his neck tightened and no air got through. Instinct to survive kicked in and he quieted, and he opened watering and straining eyes, seeing Grutas leering down at him. A shudder ran through him, and he opened his mouth for a breath he still couldn't take as reality swayed and Grutas dispersed into mist, and the shower room was all that was left.

A hollow vision for his oxygen deprived mind to collect itself to.

_Oh._

Humiliation perhaps should have itched through, but the panic still rang loudly, and he was going to die. Raped by a stranger in a public shower, he was going to die. He couldn't think of whether or not that was such a bad idea after outright begging this nameless swine. The language will have gone over the boy's head, but not the tone. Never that.

"Hey, you with me, killer?" Matthew asked. Holding Lecter to choking, Brown waited as the seconds ticked for him to stop fighting. No longer in the throes of whatever had taken over the man, Lecter hardly managed to keep from shaking as Matthew choked him into approaching unconsciousness before loosening his pull. "Alright then." Lecter's body sagged, Matthew listening intently to each gasp and gulp of breath after desperate, choking, wheezed breath.

He decided it best to forgo the entire choking side of things for the time being, noting the rope would be there should he change his mind. "You alright there?" Brown darkly cooed to the heaving man, bringing a hand up to grip Hannibal's working jaw and turn the doctor's face so he could see at least part of it. A single crystalline tear made its way down the smooth leathery skin, undoubtedly a result of either the choking or the coughing fit. _Just as enjoyable_, he thought, wiping it away with a thumb.

Stood the way he was, Lecter lost some of his height, putting him at just an inch or so shorter than Matthew. _Here’s looking_ down _at you, kid_, he thought with a sniff. And hadn’t the Ripper sounded more youthful, yelling those frightened words? Matthew’s smirk truly had no reason to go anywhere. He felt empowered, impossibly clever, knowing exactly who he had trembling against him.

The Chesapeake Ripper. Brought so low, at the whims of Matthew's superior hand. He supposed it made sense the gasping man wouldn't enjoy it. He'd expected it. Here he was: Arguably the most brutal serial killer the world had ever known of brutalized into something so crass. Matthew didn’t fashion himself a rapist, but _The Chesapeake Ripper Rapist_ amused him to the point of giddiness. He had a curiosity to sate now though.

"What was all that about?" he murmured into Lecter’s ear before chuckling quietly, as though sharing an intimate joke. "Was I doing it wrong?” he pressed. “Or was the change in language a positive sign?” Matthew regarded where they were still connected and swiftly pulled out with a filthy squelch. Lecter’s body clearly took that as a sign of reprieve, panting, rapid and harsh, but Matthew wasn’t done. “I’ve heard it could be,” he carried on conversationally, shoving two fingers into that trembling buttocks and throwing that shallow panting into ruins as he quickly took to assaulting the doctor's prostate. After a good, long minute of listening to Lecter’s amusing sounds and the return of those gasps, Matthew decided a helpful reach around was in order.

“You'll love this, if you were begging for more,” he chortled, delighted.

Under unwanted ministrations, Hannibal grew painfully stiff rather immediately; nothing in him felt like arousal. Panic, confusion and helplessness weighed too heavily on his mind for him to process much else besides his own shaking, the bleary sight of the room seeming to shake right along with him. Wetness fell down his cheeks and humiliation was there, but it was a distant flavor to the bitter salt on his tongue. There would be time for the full force of shame later, if he survived. He felt broken. Like something that had been shattered across the floor. _Again_. The word mocked him, made his stomach flip, the easiest lie he'd told the world and himself resounding in his overwhelmed mind as his body kept responding to the abuse.

_'Nothing happened to me.'_

What _had_ happened was no one's business. People hurt each other for the sake of hurting and couldn't be trusted. Fate thrust him from one obstacle of uncaring individuals into another into another, and by the time he'd been shipped off to distant relatives, the lie was being told _for_ him as truth. A severe mistrust had grown rows and rows of teeth that frightened the pity out of prying eyes. The lie helped him move past the truth. Building his palace upward, bit by intricate bit, that first wall he'd put up was now buried somewhere far below decades of construction. He'd grown cold but found passion and a love for beautiful things that ensnared his senses. What he never grew to love again was another person. He'd grow fond, yes, even dispatching bits of trust here and there, but it had all been to his own benefit. Motivations for interacting with others never included love. To love was to lose, and victory favored him more as he walked his chosen path. Unfortunately, simply believing oneself healed did not make it fact, and some part of him had always _known_ that. A voluntary oversight he was paying dearly for now.

Hannibal bent his head forward and slammed his eyes shut, wincing and vaguely baring his teeth here and there as the rough treatment dished out extreme sensations building into something he refused to place. He tried to block it all out.

_'Show us how much you like it and you can eat.'_

It wasn't working. Loathe to recall but blessed with a fine memory, his vivid recollections saw him as a child, conceding to those pigs. It fortified those undesired feelings and wound up on acceptance. Of whatever god's plan for him was. A god he'd spent decades competing against in the field of 'disasters'. While god may have had the numbers, Hannibal's works would become artistic masterpieces that held aesthetic value worth priding himself on. The world was awed. Had that same world looked upon him now, he would tremble under its judgmental gaze.

His body writhed, and he tensed and nearly came, quiet whimpers dotting his labored breaths. A tight fist constricted the head of his penis, and he whined in agony past clenched teeth and down-turned lips. He was surely a picture of poorly suppressed terrified misery because that was how he felt. He just wanted this over with.

It was always worse when they toyed with him, and he couldn't think of why he hadn't been allowed to give in to what they wanted. One spoke to him, and it took far too long this time for him to remember where he was. This was hurting him so much worse than he'd thought it could.

Matthew squeezed the doctor's shaft cruelly, smiling with a satisfaction that grew when Hannibal voiced his discomfort. "Apologies, Doc, but I think we both deserve a good release, don't you?" he spoke – kindly, for the most part. "Anyway, it sounds like you have some weird shit to work out, but that's really neither here nor there, is it?"

Overcome with misery, Hannibal bitterly chastised his own opting to swim at all. Afraid to close his eyes, he merely winced, fresh tears streaking his cheeks when the nurse shoved back inside and grabbed his erection, working the both of them towards a goal only one of them wanted. God he didn't want this, and he started struggling again, weak though it was, but it earned him a grip in his hair that pulled his head harshly back. "Quiet down, you."

_'Quiet, you. You like it.'_

"Ne..." the quiet, broken sob escaped; others tried to follow. He cut them off, brokenly gasping in air. "Aš ne..." He didn't like it, he didn't; he _hated_ it. Shutting his mouth, sharp teeth dug into his lower lip as his mind desperately begged for an end in a deafening silent prayer. Nasty kicks to an already defeated man lay in the fact that the only thing he could hear over his inner pleas were the broken sounds betraying his broken mind, the ensemble of his 'person suit' torn from him and left in tatters. Worthless. Stitching patterns he knew much about, but even the finest handwork left signs of damage if one looked hard enough. Damage easily re-inflicted once spotted and picked at like an old scab. He hated himself for crying, but instead of on anger, the emotion was built almost entirely on hurt, and he couldn’t stop.

When Dr. Lecter came, Matthew could feel the wild pulsing in the hard strokes of his hand. He pressed his cheek to Lecter's damp one, no reason to doubt the sincerity of the doctor's ruined appearance, and he breathed in the tearful whine-turned-sob that eked its way from Hannibal's very soul. _Cannibalism on a whole new level._ Matthew snorted happily as the doctor's body repeatedly clenched around his thrusting cock, and continued to simultaneously pound into and jerk Lecter off, chasing that tightness. Quietly grunting and groaning for his own release, Matthew stored away in his mind the variety of intently listened for honey-sweet, sometimes rough pained whimpers and sobs alongside stuttering sniffles and gasps.

"You sound so pathetic," he gasped, chuckling a bit, though he honestly found it more endearing, if unbelievable.

Eventually, Brown tipped over into his own climax, hips stuttering to get every last thrust he could from it, and removing his hand from Lecter's limp cock to wipe at the man's tears. "There, there," he whispered in a perfect mockery of comfort, thumb soothing a tear-stained cheek, so very pleased when Hannibal actually leaned into it before quickly flinching away with a small sound. "Everything's gonna be just fine now, Doc," he lied, patting that flushed face and carefully letting his softening cock slip out. After a moment of indulgence to watch the blood and spend leak down already streaked thighs, he moved to face the broken man.

Matthew took it all in; the therapist's body flushed down to its shaking shoulders, sniffling – the only audible proof that he was still crying – and trying to hold back tears that couldn't seem to stop. Crying, those pouty lips stretched sweetly across crooked teeth, sharp points just visible on either side of his lips' center where they met. Regal nose and cheekbones, and hooded downcast eyelids shone and burned with the release of emotions of the heartbreaking and heartbroken variety, lips quivering in earnest to keep the grimace that continued to appear and disappear from his face, and Matthew is sure he can picture The Ripper as a boy. "It's absurd – how undeserving anyone in the world would believe you are right now," he admired. "Too bad people like us don't revel in pity." The sight _was_ breathtaking in its seeming demand for said pity.

"Look at me."

Hannibal obeyed the command with a minute facial flinch of apprehension over his thoroughly cowed, softened expression. There would be no more words from him. Not when he couldn't discern something as simple as where he was. It was terrifying, and so he would comply with anything while waiting for an end. Usually once everyone reached their climax, it was over, but the face he saw wasn't that of Grutas or any of his friends, and the rules might not be the same. He bit his lip and tried to stop crying as he looked into curious blue eyes through a shield of a seemingly endless supply of tears.

"You should see yourself. A natural poster child for victimhood." His rapist smirked, and, using a downward stroke of a hand, collected the residual semen and blood from his own penis. Hannibal closed his mouth in a hard line, eyes screwing shut, when the filthy hand rose to wipe the secretions across it. Hannibal's voiced whimper a gritty sound of nausea, and even the voice in his head is sobbing when he starts to. He retched, feeling impossibly more disgusting. Never had he been so humiliated in his entire life, his head bobbing slightly with hitches of a stuttered inhale through both his mouth and stuffy nose.

_Debauched, disgusting, fucked up shell of a monster._ His scattering and mending mind berated him, unwilling to help him out of this hell just yet, and doing everything in its terribly humanized state to remind him of a time when the things he'd done in his life would've turned his stomach inside out.

_You're a monster!_ it hissed. _A monster that deserves to be punished! That deserves to suffer torment for every bit it gave!_ And that couldn't be right because he was doing God's work (and a better job of it too), after all, right? A heavily aching uncertainty flooded his mind, widened his eyes and, somehow, made him feel even more naked. But there was no covering up, no doing _anything_. He sniffled and hoped it was over before zoning out to the land of his mother tongue and directly into the detailed, chronological events that had molded him into the success story he had grown to be. Without so many overpowering sensations, his mind palace was an option again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the tender age of four, he happily jumped up and down atop his bed. Giggling, he'd closed his eyes to savor the feeling in the dark, and the decision proved erroneous when he tumbled off the bed and landed hard, bumping the bridge of his nose on one of his toy trucks. It had bled profusely, and his cries would call to his mother, but the memory didn't get that far.

Nose only just colliding against the edge of the finely crafted plaything, everything went wrong. He could hardly breathe, a tiny hand coming up to his throat to find…nothing. Eyes wide and ears focused, in expectation of his mother's rushed arrival. He sat up straighter, climbed up on unsteady legs, unsure and afraid, and took a thin breath. Maintaining his posture seemed to help as he gasped in air, tears falling heavily in a petrified silence. If he wasn't distressed enough, a sudden loud crack boomed and he flinched hard with a whimper, too frightened to do more, and squeezed his eyes shut against a brilliant flash of white light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Startled out of his palace, Hannibal harshly gasped his way back into a reality that spun, and immediately felt the threat about his neck, and he recalled. The noose. Everything still blurry, he corrected the involuntary sway of his body and blinked hard and quick against blurred vision. He heard shouting that sounded almost familiar but miles away. Vision clearing, eyeing the ground revealed that godawful nurse – writhing, with a bullet wound in his chest, and the iron in the air dictated his next, far more worrisome thoughts.

Swaying a bit, he frantically looked down at himself – immeasurable relief eking in when he noted his bathing suit had been replaced – and nearly tipped the bucket under his own bloody feet, and began to worry that the bleeding would give it away. He didn't have long to fret over that when the nurse kicked the bucket out from under him, the rope snapping tight. He remembered the sensation and felt nothing. He was almost positive the shouting voice of before was Jack's, and as he calmly kept trying for air, he was soon rewarded with it, Jack-scented though it was. Voices he was sure were loud barely registered. In the literal arms of safety, Hannibal felt his wrists throbbing, like they had their own heartbeats, and he spared one a glance. That vile pig had slit his wrists, lengthwise. At the very least, those wounds would work to his benefit, explaining the blood.

Gulping in lungfuls of air, it became tainted with a new, feminine smell. Alana. Unsure of his own appearance, Hannibal hid his face in Jack's shoulder and breathed, forcing himself to remain conscious.

"It's okay, Dr. Lecter. You're gonna be okay." Jack's reassuring voice broke through the haze.

An ambulance was surely on its way, and Hannibal refused to let himself be handled while _un_conscious. It did not suit him to allow..._all_ of his injuries to be discovered.

As Jack had said, he would be okay, and he tried to convince himself of that, but felt himself trembling. He'd take time off from work, make haste in finishing up extracurricular activities and sleep for a week. Or a month. Will would be free soon, and much as Hannibal wanted to be thrilled, he couldn't. Facing the empathetic profiler in his current state wasn't something to look forward to, but Will had little reason to want to see Hannibal as well. In time. They both just needed time.

**Author's Note:**

> According to Google:  
Aš atsiprašau! = I'm sorry  
Prašau = Please  
Ne = No  
Aš ne = I don't
> 
> If I ever do decide to write more, I'll surely do it, forget it and then upload it years later. :)
> 
> (Infinite thanks to dovahkiing for the prompt. Link: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3819.html?thread=6716395#cmt6716395)


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